dean winchester whoâs obsessed with boobs and sucking on them.
it all started as a sexual thing, another way to make the girls under him writhe with pleasure. heâd take their nipples between his fingers and twist them until long moans weâre dragged from their lipsâanything to make them feel good, just so he can feel good in return, at least for a second.
but then it started transforming into something else. heâd fondle the soft mounds in his hands, brush his lips against the hard little points of them, and run his tongue all over them. heâd suckle softly, then a little more earnestly. a hint of teeth, soft suction sounds in his ears, the girlâs hands running through his hair.
oh, it felt good. for the first time, dean let himself indulge in selfish desires. heâd kiss down every girlâs throat and around her chest, spending more time than he probably should tending to her tits. sometimes girls loved it, sometimes they were indifferent to it. whatever it was, they were so blissed out by the end of the night that they didnât seem to care about his weird fixation.
then you came into his life, and it became a whole other thing. he found his hand reaching for your breasts whenever he was sad, or hurt, or just angsty and in need of comfort. heâd lay his head on your chest and unconsciously mouth at the tender curves of you, lips sloppy over your shirt and fingers twitching against your flesh.
whenever you have sexâalways so intimate, whether youâre going slow and deep or fast and hard, always with love shining in your eyes and your bodies fusing into oneâhe spends hours kissing your chest, leaving red and purple bruises all over it, your nipples sore and rosy by the time heâs done with you.
itâs always worse, when heâs gently thrusting into you and youâre petting his hair, pawing at his cheeks and murmuring soft words of reassurance, praise whispered in his ears and sweet-nothings pressed to his lips. he finds himself resting his forehead over your heart and blinking back stupid tears, his jaw working overtime as he suckles on you and lets the warmth of your adoration wash over him.
you even let him do it just for the sake of it, when heâs in one of his self-destructive streaks or when grief claws at his heart hard enough to weaken his body. the two of you lie in bed, limbs tangled and skin bare, and he leaves kisses over every inch of your body. his lips attach to your sweet and salty flesh and his tongue draws circles against it until heâs satiated and sleepy, leaving one last wet peck against your cheek before drifting off into dreams with his face hidden in the crook of your neck.
âgood boy,â you whisper in his ear, dean whimpers drowsily, already half asleep. âget some rest, my angel. i got you.â
dean will never admit to having mommy issues, but you know.
youâre also pathetically into it, but thatâll stay between you and your search history.
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dean winchester is pathetic. you werenât clueless to that fact when you started dating him, but perhaps you were oblivious to the degree of his stupid submissive tendencies and how much of a horny little mutt he is.
your phone dinged at 3:46pm, the sound echoing off the walls in the bunkerâs library. a text from dean. a video.
âhi, baby. i miss you,â he says and smiles into the camera, looking all pretty under the afternoon sun. âsammy and iâve arrived. heâs back in the room⊠but iâm out here by the pool. itâs kinda empty⊠which is good⊠i suppose⊠cause lookââ
he pans the camera down; heâs in a shirt and boxers, his swim shorts tugged halfway down his thighs. you see the clear outline of his bulge hidden beneath the dark fabric.
âthought about your pussy the whole drive here. i couldnât help it. iâm justâ iâm aching for her. need her smothering my face⊠or my cock, baby. jesus, iâm soâ fuck!â
he rambles on, slowly stroking himself over his boxers. soft needy noises leave his lipsâthe sounds barely making it into the video. you can tell heâs trying to be quiet, wanting to be a good boy only for you and your ears.
it doesnât take much for dean to cum, whimpering and whining the whole video until his seed shoots out the leg hole of his boxers and coats his meaty thigh with thick ropes.
âfuckâ oh! shit!â he gasps out breathlessly.
dean palms himself a few more times, just slowly, to get the last few drops out of his softening cock. he pans the video back up to his face, which is now all rosy and glowing with slight embarrassment. âthat was all for you, sweetheart. canât wait to get home to you. i miss you already.â
deanâs hands gripped the soft skin of your hips as he groaned softly beneath you. his head fell back against the pillow, eyes squeezed shut and mouth falling open as more breathy moans escaped his lips.
you look down at him with a devilish grin, rocking your hips again, slow, teasing. you could feel him twitching inside of you, desperate for a release you refused to give him. not yet.
âplease, babyâŠâ dean panted out, his voice thick with need. he squeezed your hips tighter, trying to quicken your movements. âlet me come, pleaseâŠâ
ânot yet, dean. be patient.â you cooed teasingly, brushing a finger gently down his cheek. dean whined softly from the touch and you felt his hips twitch, so desperate to just fuck up into you.
you laughed lowly, continuing the slow rolls of your hips as dean whimpered and begged softly, cock twitching inside of you, getting needier and needier by the second. you were enjoying this, and you werenât going to stop anytime soon.
đ.đ° : +18 MDNI. degradation. submission. dirty-talk. choking. dean tied up. cumming in pants. cum eating. ⏠.á
The leather bites into Dean's already bruised skin of his neck, choking him a way that has him both grunting for air and leaking inside his jeans.
Your voice, like a spiked bat wrapped in gauze, travels around the room like it's about to bite him if he stops rutting his hips upwards against your boot that's stomped down against his crotch.
"For someone as pretty as you, it's such a shame you're so fucking pathetic," There's no mercy or a single hint of affection behind your words, and they make him whine again, swallowed by the harsh material of the army green bag you shoved his head into just before you hit "REC" on the handycam propped up about a meter away from him.
He looks lovely like this, you think. Wanton and miserable, drooling through the jute and starting to wet a patch through the front of his pants.
Your boot leaves his crotch and you step away to pace around him slowly, still holding him on a tight leash you've made out of his own belt.
"D'you not think you're pathetic?" The length of the black leather belt gets slowly reduced as you wrap it around your leather-gloved hand, leaning down behind him to murmur into his ear.
One harsh tug from it and he's whining. "Yes! " Dean mutters out a cry, his hips canting upwards, desperate for the feeling of the sole of your boot against his confined cock again. "Y-yes, I'm patheticâ"
You've had him in this position for about half an hour now, granting and taking release away from him through the zipper, not even needing to untuck him from his boxers to have him practically sobbing for you.
Again; pathetic.
But, you can imagine that beautiful, needy expression on him face, those puckered lips and jade teary eyes staring up at you like he's just found out you're God and he's not surprised at all because you already give him everything he needs to survive, and it only makes sense.
And, oh, it's a beautiful sight. Even nowâspecially nowâthat three, almost four, of his five senses have been snatched away from him. He's completely reliant on you.
You decide if he cums tonight in front of the camera.
His wrists, tender and becoming raw against the tight rope, have started aching where you've tied them behind his back to the chair. The makeshift shackles on his ankles a little heavy where they sit right atop his socked feet.
He's so hard it hurts. It only makes it better.
"You just need me to stroke this pretty, needy dick, hm?" You've leant your body forward to lay your free hand over the boner fighting it's way up against the front of his jeans, greeting you with a pleasant twitch, the glove squeaking quietly to the friction.
A cruel smirk quivers on your lips when he lets out a meek cry, his head falling backwards against your shoulder.
Whatever pitiful moan just came out of his mouth you're sure it was your name, too lost in the moment, all of his blood pooling between his thighs.
Poor thing can't think before speaking. Too dumb in the middle of the heat.
You give his clothed erection a light, quick slap, and his whole body locks in for a moment, almost as if he's about to break, but he holds it in like the big boy he is.
"Stupid, little thing can't even get hit without thinking about cumming." Your nose brushes against the spot where the shell of his ear is supposed to be under the hood. "That's what you want? You want me to bruise you up real good so you learn how to not make a fucking sound until I say so?"
Dean nods eagerly, but that'll be something for another time. Now you're more focused on the tremble his thighs with the way he's holding his orgasm back.
You grin so hard the apple of your cheeks push the plain black colombina mask on your face a little upwards.
"Say it." Your demand yanks his spine straight, trying to fight off the heat licking down his lower belly.
"Want you to beat me up," It sounds muffled and gagged from the lack of air, but he still manages through it. "Want you to fuck me up. Wanna comeâ Please, I need to cumâ"
He's the prettiest when he begs like the slut you know he is. In this storage room that smells like mildew and the sweat he's grown from forty agonizingly long minutes of working him up.
"You don't want anything that I don't tell you to." You cut him off meanly.
Where your hand pretends to set a boundary right over his bulged lap, his brain, severed by the heat, sees the chance to relieve himself. But he won't, not yet. Not until you let him.
Believe it or not, he's very obedient when he knows the prize will be worth it.
"...Not yet," There's an almost sweet tilt to your voice as the heel of your hand aggravates his ache. "...Not yet, baby, don't you fucking dare." You just coo against the back of his head when he writhes weakly against the chair.
Then, you squeeze him, and he can't even apologize before he's exploding behind the seams.
He's a mess of "m'sorry"s and "fuck"s while the orgasm rattles though his pent up body. You don't chide or pinch him for it.
You just pull the zipper down, freeing him as he's still coming in thin ropes that stain his jeans and make your hand sticky with his release.
"You've been good," Your other hand lets go of the belt to loosen it a little bit and fold the hood upwards just enough to uncover his mouth, taking what you've cooped up on your fingers to his mouth.
Needless to say, he opens up for you and licks your wrapped fingers greedily.
He's not even embarrassed that he just came in his underwear. He's just happy that he gests you to manhandle him like this.
It makes you smile fondly at him, your body facing half away from the camera. "You did good, baby." Your lips hover over his, leaving a peck on the left corner of his mouth, and he sighs contently, lax and spent on his seat.
After he's came almost completely down from his high, you step away from him and towards the camera, turning it off.
NOTES: heyyy... it could've been better, but i think i'm getting my spark back. i'm severely sleep deprived.
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Why did I just have a sudden vision mid-meeting about Dean lying on his front in bed, looking at his phone or whatever, and his reader-girlfriend climbing over him, for cuddles initially, but then his lil peach ass gets in the way and she starts grinding against him from behind and he's really into it?
I need to be put down. Yes, those reports look great. She comes, btw, face pressed into Dean's neck, moaning loudly. Dean does too just from dry humping the bed, gets himself all messy. Yes, absolutely, end of quarter sounds great. Somebody please shoot me.
dean winchester that just canât help but moan when you wrap your hand around his throat, cutting the airflow just enough to make him realize that he doesnât have the power, this time. dean winchester that just canât help but whine and whimper to you, for the feeling of your hands on his body; stroking his cock, tugging on his hair, slapping that pretty freckled face. dean winchester that just canât help but cry out your name when you finally give him the permission to come, thick ropes of semen flowing from his pinkish tip, coating your fingers that you immediately push into his mouth and against his tongue while his teary eyes look up at you.
content warnings & word count: swearing, yearning, unrequited love & affection, dismissive behaviour, smut (groping kinda?, blink-and-you'll-miss cunnilingus, unprotected p in v, very vocal sub!dean), crying, angsty as all goddamn hell. think that's all. 3.8k
The rainâs been coming down for an hour straight.
Not the soft kind, not the romantic kindâthis is the kind that claws at windows and floods gutters and makes the air feel like grief. The kind that doesnât stop just because youâve run out of reasons to stand in it.
Dean doesnât knock. Not yet. He just stands there, under the crooked awning of your apartment building, jacket soaked clean through and hair flattened to his scalp, fists shoved deep in his pockets like if he lets them out, theyâll start shaking. Or worseâreaching.
The porch light buzzes overhead, flickering faintly, sickly yellow.
He watches the glow spill out from behind your curtains, warm and dim and private in the way things become when youâre no longer welcome inside them.
Youâre in there. He knows you are. And he knows he shouldnât be.
He told himself he wouldnât do this. Told himself a thousand times.
But thereâs only so many bottles you can drain, only so many half-assed apologies you can rewrite in your head before grief grabs you by the collar and says go.
So now heâs here. Soaked. Cold. And so fucking sorry he doesnât know where to put it all.
His boots leave prints on the concrete. He stares at your door like it might swallow him.
And then he knocks. Not hard. Not loud. But heavyâlike the kind of knock that comes with a name in its mouth.
He hears the shuffling. The soft footfalls. The pause behind the door.
When it opens, youâre bathed in that warm, still light. Bare legs. Oversized shirt. Hair twisted up haphazardly, ringlets sticking out like soft rebellion. And your faceâgod, your faceâis unreadable.
Not bitter. Not hurt. Just⊠done.
Dean feels his ribs splinter.
You sigh. Loud. Tired. Like this is the last fucking thing you wanted tonight.
âI told you not to come back.â
He swallows. His voice scrapes its way out like itâs been hiding too long in his throat.
âI miss Cas.â
Itâs not an answer. Itâs not even a real sentence. But itâs all heâs got.
You donât flinch. You just look up at the rain like it might wash the ache off your bones. Then you shake your headâonce, sharpâand step aside.
âTake your boots off. Donât drag all that shit through my hallway.â
And just like that, heâs inside.
But heâs never felt farther away from you.
The door shuts behind him with a soft click. Final. Clean. Like youâve done this beforeâclosed him out. Closed him off.
Dean stands just inside the threshold, shoulders dripping, breath fogging faintly in the warm air. The apartment smells like lemon and sandalwood. Like soap. Like youâve been scrubbing.
He bends to untie his boots. Rainwater pools at his feet, and he watches it soak into your welcome mat. That used to say âhome,â once. Now it just says âhello.â
He toes the boots off and sets them neatly beside the door, even though itâs pointlessâthereâs already a mess behind him.
He straightens up. And then he sees it. The hallway.
Different.
The paintâolive green. The exact shade you used to point out in every damn swatch book. The one he always said you could do âlater.â The one he never got around to.
His gut twists. It looks good. It looks finished.
But all he can think is:
She waited until I was gone to make it feel like hers.
Thereâs no coat rack anymore. No photos on the wallânone of the two of you at that cabin last winter, none of that blurry one Sam took of you both laughing on the bunker steps. Gone. All of it.
It feels like heâs been erased.
You donât wait for him. Youâve already turned your back and padded softly down the hallway, leaving a faint trail of heat in your wake.
Dean follows. Silent. Drenched. Swallowing hard against the ache rising in his chest like bile.
The living room is next. It hits him like a punch.
The couch has been moved. The coffee tableâs different. Lighter wood. Modern. The books on it are new, the throw blanket across the back of the armchair isnât the navy one he used to steal during movie nightsâitâs pale. Cream-coloured. Fragile-looking.
Thereâs a candle burning on the windowsill. The whole place is calm. Curated. Cleansed.
Itâs like she burned sage and swept out my ghost.
You drop onto the couch like this is just another Thursday night.
He stands there, dripping on the hardwood, watching you tuck your legs up beneath you like you used to do when you were wrapped in his flannel. Youâre not wearing his flannel now.
âYou gonna stand there all night?â You donât look at him when you say it.
Dean swallows. His tongue feels too big in his mouth. His throat burns.
âPlace looks different.â
Still no eye contact.
âIt should. I live here now.â
And thatâs the moment.
Thatâs the moment something inside him starts to die.
Because youâre not being cruel. Youâre not trying to wound him.
Youâre just telling the truth. And it hurts so much more than if youâd screamed.
You donât look at him when you speak again. You just rise from the couch, padding barefoot toward the kitchen like this is just another moment in a life where he doesnât matter anymore.
âYou want tea or something?â
You say it like itâs a reflex. Like itâs muscle memory. Deanâs jaw tightens.
âYeah. Uh. Sure.â
His voice sounds foreign in this room. Like it echoes wrong. Like the air doesnât know him anymore.
You disappear behind the half-wall, and he stares at the space you left behind like a fucking idiot. The throw pillows donât match anymore. The lampâs been moved. The blanketâs cream instead of navy. The silence is clinical. Disinfected.
He turns his head slightly. Eyes catch the mug tree beside the microwave.
And it hits him.
That dumb mug. The one with the cartoon possum and the words âI hate morningsâ in all caps. The one heâd shoved into your hands after a shitty hunt in Tulsa, saying âfigured this was your vibe.â
The one you used to drink out of every morning, tucked into his chest, humming along to ELO on the shitty kitchen speaker.
Gone. Not broken. Not misplaced. Removed.
Like it never mattered.
You return, setting a steaming mug on the coffee table in front of him. Not in his hands. Not with a smile.
Just⊠placed. Offered.
âStill take it black?â
Dean nods, voice lost in his throat.
You sit again. Quiet. Perfect posture. One leg tucked beneath you, your fingers curled loosely around your own mug. You donât ask him why heâs here. You donât need to.
Youâve always been good at waiting people out.
He takes a breath.
âI didnât know how to talk to anyone. After Cas. Afterâeverything.â
You donât blink. You donât shift.
âYou stopped talking to me long before that.â
He flinches.
Because itâs true. Because you said it like it was just another fact, not a wound.
The rain still whispers against the windowpane. The candle on the sill flickers.
Dean swallows hard and stares at the steam curling from the mug like it might spell something useful.
âYou look better. Without me.â
You look at him then.
Not soft. Not smug. Just⊠calm, and whisper: âI am.â
And it guts him.
Worse than purgatory.
Worse than hell.
Because you didnât say it to be cruel. You said it like youâd finally accepted the truth. Like he was a fever youâd sweat out, and now you were clean.
He lowers himself onto the couch, slowly, like he might break the furniture just by existing near it.
His voice is barely a breath.
âCan I sit?â
You shrug. Take a sip.
âYou can sit. Doesnât mean you get to stay.â
Dean shifts on the edge of the couch like it might bite him. He hasnât touched the coffee. He wonât. Not yet.
Your fingers are curled around your mug, steam softening the line of your jaw, but your mouth is a straight, unreadable thing.
He stares at you. Like maybe if he memorises you again, itâll turn back time.
He opens his mouth.
âI miss yoââ
You donât even blink.
âDonât.â
He flinches like heâs been slapped.
You look at him then, eyes steady and hollowed out, voice quiet and bone-sharp.
âI donât want to hear you lie anymore. You donât get to miss me, Dean. Not after the way things went down.â
He tries again. Stammers. Fingers twitching on his knees like maybe if he moves, this wonât feel so final.
âIâI didnât mean for it to go like that. I was justâI lost Cas, and then I lost myself, andââ
âAnd you lost me.â You say it so simply it makes his throat tighten. âAnd you didnât come looking. Not really.â
He opens his mouth again but nothing comes out.
You sighâlong, soft, like a teacher tired of hearing excuses from the same failing student.
âI went through all five stages after you left. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. Over and over. Like clockwork. For months.â
You set your mug down. Look him straight in the eyes.
âAnd then I stopped.â
Dean swallows. His whole chest feels like itâs collapsing in on itself. Youâre too calm. Too composed. Too healed.
âI stopped because I realised I really did deserve better.â
He shakes his head. Not because he disagrees, but because heâs spiralling.
âIâm sorry. IâI didnât know how to fix it, I didnât know how to say itââ
You cut him off again, but softer this time. No venom. Just truth.
âI mourned you, Dean. I mourned us. What we were. What we couldâve been.â
You pause. Let the silence stretch.
âAnd I mourned me. The version of me that thought love meant waiting for someone who wouldnât show up.â
Heâs reeling now. Because the words arenât cruel. Theyâre not even angry. Theyâre just⊠final.
And thatâs what kills him.
Thatâs what cracks him open.
Because heâs desperate now. For the touch, for the warmth, for the version of you that used to curl into his side like he was a place to rest.
But sheâs not here. And heâs realising he mightâve buried her with his silence.
Dean looks like heâs about to speakâtwiceâbut stops himself both times. His hands twitch in his lap. His knee starts to bounce. He opens his mouth, shuts it again, scrubs a hand down his face like he can wipe the helplessness off.
âIâfuck, I didnât come here toâI didnât mean to upset youââ
âThen why did you come here?â
Your voice cuts clean through the static of his panic. You tilt your head, eyes sharp now, sharper than theyâve been all night. Something in you shiftsâtired, maybe, or just done playing therapist to a man who only ever wanted you when you were slipping away.
âYou need closure or something? You want me to pat your hand and tell you youâre still a good man?â
Deanâs mouth parts. He doesnât speak.
âIs that it?â
You lean back into the couch like youâve already decided this isnât worth your energy. The dismissal burns in his chest.
âIf thatâs what you came for⊠fine. Iâll give you closure.â
Your voice is steel beneath silk.
âBut then you leave. And you leave me the hell alone.â
Dean shifts forward like somethingâs pulled his whole body toward you.
âNoâno, I didnât come here for that, IâI didnât know what else to do. IâI couldnât stop thinking about you, and I know that doesnât fix shit, but Iâm here. I needâJesus, I need you, Iââ
You sigh, sharp and frustrated.
And DeanâGod help himâlights up inside at the sound. Not because youâre forgiving him. Not because youâre softening. But because finally, finally, youâre reacting.
âThank Christ,â he breathes, almost a whisper. âI thoughtâfuck, I thought I lost even that.â
You look at him like you might laugh. Like you might cry. You donât do either.
âYouâre unbelievable.â
He lurches forward slightly on the couch. Closer. Knees almost touching yours now. Thereâs something different in the air between youâstill heavy, still rottenâbut now itâs crackling too. Charged.
You lean in a little. Not much. Just enough that he notices.
âWhat is it you want from me, Dean? You want me to scream? You want me to throw something?â
Your voice is low now. Measured. Tired and electric all at once.
âYou want me to feel something again for you?â
His throat bobs as he swallows.
âI want you to look at me like you used to. I want you to touch me like Iâm still worth something.â
Silence.
The kind that aches.
And thenâ
You reach forward slowly, place your mug on the table. Deanâs breath catches. You turn back to him.
âIf you want closure⊠you can have it.â
The words sit between you like an open door.
And Deanâs already halfway through it.
He doesnât move at first. Just stares at you like heâs waiting for your approval. But you donât give it. You just lean back on the couchâspine against the cushions, legs slightly parted, watching him with the kind of cool disinterest that should have gutted him.
Instead, it makes his cock twitch.
He swallows again. His throat is dry. Everything else is wet.
âYou said⊠closure.â
Your fingers trail lazily along the inside of your thigh, not even touching the hem of the long shirt youâre wearing. Just resting there.
Like heâs not worth the effort of anticipation.
Dean exhales, shaky. Then his hands move to the fly of his jeans, slow and fumbling. The fabric clings to him, soaked through, and he has to peel it downâdragging wet denim down his thighs like itâs a punishment.
His boxers follow. Dark and damp and clinging low on his hips. Heâs already hardâof course he is.
He looks at you.
Still nothing.
No heat. No softness. Just cool appraisal, like youâre deciding whether or not to let him crawl closer.
âPlease.â
It slips out without permission. He winces at itâbut doesnât take it back.
You raise an eyebrow, just slightly.
âPlease what?â
Your voice is bored. Detached. But cutting.
Deanâs knees hit the floor.
The carpet scratches his skin. He doesnât care. Heâs kneeling in front of you now, cock flushed and twitching, hands flexing on your thighs but not daring to move further.
You still havenât touched him.
âPlease,â he whispers again. âPlease let me⊠just let meââ
Your head tilts. Like youâre studying something pathetic. A little sad. A little entertaining.
âLet you what, Dean?â
He groans. A sound from deep in his chestâfrustrated, humiliated, needy.
âLet me taste you. Let me feel you again. Just once.â
You donât smile.
âYouâre dripping all over my carpet.â
That shouldâve shamed him. Instead, he moans. Low. Breathless. Eyes fluttering closed for a second like even that insult feeds him.
âFuckâfuck, I know. Iâm sorry. Iâll clean it, Iâll do whatever you want, justââ
Your hand tangles in his damp hair, finally. Fingers gripping the roots, tilting his head back so heâs forced to look up at you.
Your eyes are cold. Detached. Like heâs a stranger in your home.
âYouâre not here because I love you,â you murmur. âYouâre here because Iâm kind.â
Dean swallows a whimper.
âI know. I know. Justâplease. I need you. I need this.â
You release his hair and lean back again, spreading your legs just enough that he gets the message.
And he movesâmouth already open, eyes glazed with gratitude and something feral.
He dives between your thighs like a man starved.
And above him, you donât moan. You donât whisper his name. You just lie there, gaze distant, chest rising slowly, as if none of this really matters anymore.
Dean eats you like itâs the last thing that will ever make him feel whole again. And maybe it is.
Your fingers thread through his hair againâbut not like before. Not to guide. Not to praise. Just to push him back.
âMight as well stop.â
Your voice slices clean through the haze. Dean pulls back from between your thighs, lips swollen, chin slick, pupils blown wide. He blinks up at you like heâs just been slapped.
âWhat?â
âYouâre not gonna make me come like this anymore.â
You stretch out lazily, like this is all beneath you. Like heâs beneath you.
âYou aren't getting me off.â
Dean looks like heâs reeling. Like youâve just kicked the air out of his lungs. His hands shake as they grip your thighs.
âWhyâWhy do you hate me?â
His voice cracks in the middle, breaking like bone.
He drags you down the couch in a single, desperate pullâyour ass sliding to the edge, your legs open around him like muscle memory.
But you donât flinch. You donât reach for him. You look down at him with steady, surgical detachment.
âI donât hate you, Dean.â
He freezes.
His chest stills. His eyes search yours. Something flutters in themâhope. Fragile and stupid.
Until you keep going.
âTo hate someone, you have to feel something for them.â
You tilt your head.
âAnd I donât feel anything for you anymore.â
He makes a soundânot a groan, not a growlâsomething small. Wounded. Like something inside him is caving in.
Then he presses forward. Drags himself through your folds like heâs begging for forgiveness with his body.
You donât sigh. You donât gasp. You just watch him.
And thenâ
He shoves inside you.
A single, desperate thrust. Full. Deep. Like itâs penance. Deanâs whole body shudders. His head drops forward against your chest. Heâs panting. Hard. Like every breath is a plea.
âFuck. Fuckâpleaseââ
You say nothing.
You let him fuck into you like heâs trying to remember how it used to feel when you wanted him. You donât move. Donât cling. Donât kiss. And he whimpers against your skin.
Heâs never felt so close to breaking.
Deanâs fucking into you like a prayer gone unanswered. Desperate. Messy. Panting like heâs running out of time and maybe he is, maybe he already has. His hands are bruising your hips, but you barely flinch.
Your eyes are half-lidded, glazed with disinterest. Heâs rutting like a man possessed, and youâre just lying thereâhead back, lips parted, gaze fixed on some invisible point on the ceiling. Not him. Never him.
âYou think you can fuck your way to absolution,â you murmur. âLike Iâll forgive everything just because youâre on your knees now.â
Dean whimpers. A real one. From the throat, cracked and choked.
âI didnât mean toâI never wanted to hurt you, I justââ
You cut him off with a sharp breath through your nose.
âYou didnât mean to lie to me? Didnât mean to disappear when I needed you the most? Didnât mean to make me feel small, like I was some extra weight you didnât ask to carry?â
His thrusts falter. Sloppier now. Like your words are striking bone.
âYou left me to drown in that silence. You left me to claw my way out of the wreckage alone.â
He moans like heâs being stabbed. Like he wants to argue, but his hips wonât stop movingâwonât stop confessing for him.
And then you say it.
Cold. Clinical. A scalpel dragged across the throat of everything you used to be:
âWow.â
You meet his eyes.
âThis used to feel so much better when I loved you.â
He freezes.
Mid-thrust. Mid-breath. His body stills completely, cock buried deep inside you, shaking. His mouth parts like he wants to say your name but doesnât dare.
You stare down at him.
Still. Unbothered. Like you didnât just reach into his chest and rip his heart out bare-handed.
His eyes shimmer. His jaw works. Heâs not moving anymoreâjust trembling, thick and aching inside you, trying to hold on to a version of you that doesnât exist anymore.
You donât kiss him. You donât comfort him. You just sigh.
âFinish if youâre gonna finish, Dean. Iâm tired.â
And thatâs what breaks him. Because youâre not angry. Youâre over it. And he never will be.
He starts moving again.
Hesitant at firstâlike heâs afraid youâll stop him. Or worse, wonât.
The thrusts come slow, then desperate, then frantic. His fingers dig into your hips. His forehead presses against your shoulder.
You still donât move. Still donât moan. Still donât give him anything.
And thatâs what makes him fucking lose it.
âPlease,â he whispers, voice wrecked. âPlease, baby, IâI need you toâŠâ
He trails off because he doesnât even know what he needs. A sound. A sigh. A twitch of your hand in his hair. Anything.
But you just stare past him like heâs a dream you woke from years ago.
âFuckâtalk to meâsay something, anything, I canâtââ
His voice catches. He thrusts harder. Pathetically hard. His whole body shudders with effort. Heâs panting like a dog in heat, chasing a ghost of who you used to be.
âIâll be betterâjust let meâplease, let me make you feel somethingââ
Nothing.
Youâre just a warm, wet grave heâs digging into, begging for resurrection. And thereâs no miracle coming.
âI love you,â he gasps. âGod, I love you, I love youââ
You blink slowly, as if the weight of those words is no heavier than a breeze.
He chokes out a sob and pulls out at the last second, fisting himself hard and fast with one shaky hand, mouth slack as his whole body jerksâ
He spills across your mound with a broken moan, spend hot between your bodies, dripping down your skin as his hand goes slack.
He starts to collapse forward, but you shift slightly, sitting up on your elbows.
And heâfucking desperateâwraps his arms around you from the awkward angle, smushing himself against you, face buried in your chest, breathing hard.
His cum smears between you both, sticky and hot and miserable. He doesnât care. He just holds on.
âDonât go,â he mumbles into your skin. âJustâjust a little while longer, let me hold you.â
You sigh. Not emotional. Not annoyed. Just⊠done. You rest your hands on his shouldersâflat, impersonalâand then you push.
He lets you.
You sit up, slide out from beneath him, the wet drag of him pulling away leaving a ghost behind.
You stand, bare but untouchable, and turn to face him where he still kneels.His face is flushed. Eyes red. Chest heaving.
You donât pity him.
âDean,â you say softly.
He looks up like heâs ready to say Iâm sorry again. Like heâs ready to beg.
You donât let him.
âYou need to get out of my apartment now.â
His mouth opens.
âLeave me the hell alone.â
He flinches.
âFor good.â
The words hit like bullets. Final. Precise. You donât say them with cruelty. You say them like youâre taking out the trash. Because thatâs all thatâs left of this.
He stares up at you. Still hard. Still dripping. Still hoping.
But your eyes are empty. And this time, he knows you mean it.
He stands slowly. Pulls his pants back up. Doesnât bother with his wet jacket. And when he walks to the door, you donât follow. You donât say goodbye.
You just wipe yourself clean, light a candle, and turn the page.
author note/s: hey everybody, so instead of forcing myself to finish editing and posting the next part of "cruel summer", i decided to work through some of my current trauma by writing this utterly devastating and depressing piece.
i don't know. i just need it at the moment. it's the first time in weeks i've felt motivated to write and i'm angry as fuck at my ex and i needed a way to vent. so here it is.
i know dean's being pathetic in this one, like even for sub!dean but i'm living vicariously through this so shh please.
let me know what y'all think. i love all of you, so much.
all the love.